Breach of Contract
by Slow Motion Outlaw
Summary: An on-stage incident almost leads to Hamburger Time for Dethklok, and reveals a threat that could bring the band down from the inside. Desperate times call for desperate measures. T for language, Dethklok antics and slash. Nathan/Charles.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Metalocalypse, but if I did....*cackles madly*. Oh, and those two lines of lyrics are from '_Briefcase Full of Guts_', by Dethklok.  
**Author Notes:** Brutalbusiness' Nathan/Charles month has been the inspiration I needed to finally write this story that's been swirling around in my head for a while now.  
I'd love to hear your opinions and crit on it, I'm not too fabulous at the various dialects and other sundry things. I had waaay too much fun writing this, really. Every time I spellcheck my computer does an epic 'NO.' Oh Metalocalypse, how you love the English language.

* * *

Not surprisingly, Dethklok, the world's most brutal band, had many enemies, most of which the five musicians were completely unaware of. Sobriety, however, was a well-known foe, and valiantly fought in an epic struggle which had left an extensive trail of property damage, paternity suits and general carnage over the years. Continuing the tradition, Nathan took a deep swig of tequila before heading back out for the final song. It was a stinking hot night and it felt as if they'd been touring forever. But as much as he hated the pathetic jackoffs crawling over each other to get closer, their enthusiasm was like an electrifying current in his blood, waking him up, setting him on edge, giving him a buzz better than anything else. Well, almost anything. A sudden thought of glasses and suits intruded. He shook his head; it must've been the tequila talking. This was definitely not the time for that shit again. He caught Pickles giving him an odd look as he passed by the drum kit, perhaps picking up on his moment of unease. He wished he'd finished the bottle.

The lights dimmed and the crowd worked themselves into a frenzy as the band launched into the booming introduction to their finale. They were five men disguised as the dead, feeling more alive than ever as they screamed and thrashed and beat the music out of their instruments. Not that Dethklok currently had the time or ability to admire that irony. Behind them a gigantic fibreglass Facebones hung from the roof and the amps shook the whole stage in time to the beat. He almost grinned as he took a breath, this was the real shit.

"_Kill outside the box, Hold you as you—"_

Nathan had the momentary impression of a black and white panther lunging directly at him, roaring something he couldn't hear over the drums. It hit his knees with surprising force, sending him toppling over and effectively trapping the attacker under his bulk. Only once before had anything dared to interrupt Nathan Explosion mid-song, and he'd rewarded that asshole label executive with a wired jaw. Needless to say, he planned something extremely unpleasant for the unwise individual who had brought them crashing into a very unmetal heap onstage. He slowly registered that it was their manager he was now face-to-face with. However, further consideration of this point was drowned out by the tremendous noise of half a tonne of metal hitting the stage. A thick cable snapped, lashing out whip-like where his head had been not thirty seconds before. Half his band disappeared in a thundering crash of twisted metal, equipment and canvas. The enormous skull that had hung above them smashed onto the pile, sending sharp fragments of fibreglass and steel showering over the audience with a demonic leer.

The world seemed to grind to a temporary halt, as if expecting this to be some elaborate stunt. For the first time ever at a Dethklok gig, there was silence. And then the screaming started. The last of the equipment collapsed in on itself. A swarm of Klokateers tore across the stage. A tattered drum rolled by. Someone in the audience burst out crying.

Remembering that he was currently sitting atop his manager, he jumped to his feet, trying to make sense of what just happened.

"Schit, schit, schit!"

Murderface was on his left, his fingers still on the frets of the guitar, mouth hanging open. To their right Swissgar surged upward through a layer of canvas, Explorer in one hand and a shell-shocked Toki clutched in the other. They appeared unhurt, but the Norwegian seemed to be holding his arm oddly. A familiar voice barked orders over the din as the Klokateers worked, ant-like, pulling apart the stage and assessing the band. To everyone's relief, their missing drummer appeared shortly after, slung unconscious over the broad shoulders of a senior Gear. Nobody seemed to be screaming anymore at least. Thank fuck, Nathan thought, almost tripping over the discarded microphone as their manager appeared at his elbow, his bent glasses the only indicator he'd just been fallen on by a man twice his size.

"The audience is going to riot, it's time to go. Everyone's going to be alright, but we have to go _now_." "But –"

Just for once he wanted to see that robot panic like the rest of them. Did he realise what had just—

"Now." Ofdensen ordered.

Those left standing followed the retreating back of their manager, surrounded by their personal guard. Around them Klokateers lunged at desperate fans. Dazed and shaken, they barely heard the crowd howling. The band had performed with all sorts of dangerous and insane props, but the thought they'd almost been squashed by a giant cartoon skull was a bit much for Nathan. Not to mention their manager had just _thrown_ himself at him in front of ten thousand people and the band to prevent him from being brutally decapitated. He wasn't sure what to think about that.

"Oh schit. Schit. Schit. Schit."

The faint noise of Murderface's mantra and the sound of someone plucking at a guitar were just audible over the howls of the crowd as they reached the Dethcopter. Three minutes later, the riot broke out into the streets.

#

Close calls were nothing new to Dethklok, however terrifyingly oblivious they may have been to them. But then, that was his job; Keep the band safe, keep them playing and protect them from the real world. And Charles Foster Ofdensen was damn good at his job. Swissgar had come out miraculously unscathed and Toki and Pickles had suffered reasonably minor injuries. Still, the boys were coping poorly. Sitting in the crowded hospital waiting room, he was painfully aware of the other patients staring at them as Murderface treated him to a furious and slightly incoherent monologue, assisted by the occasional comment from Swissgar. The words 'Hamburger Time' and 'pisch' seemed to be coming up with an impressive frequency and volume, but he thought he and every other person within the building was getting the gist.

"I, uh, understand your concern, William, and I am making... enquiries... regarding the staff involved in maintaining and testing the stage equipment" he assured them. Fifty-eight people had already lost their jobs today, and he was just getting started.

Nathan sat beside him, glaring a hole in the wall. He was glad the singer had said nothing about before. Maybe he'd forgotten already. The whole subject would be awkward. It had been instinct, no time to think, and it was natural he'd try to save the lead singer. It was just logical.

The smell of hospital disinfectant was bringing back unpleasant memories- days and nights of staring at the ceiling, the guilt almost as blinding as the pain. But it had all been necessary, worth it, even. He'd arrived in time to save the band. He'd had no real choice. He didn't notice as his fingers brushed the hidden scar, joining Nathan in his quest to remove the wall by deathstares alone.

"You can see them now."

The attending nurse had appeared before the group, a stout woman in her early sixties, apparently unaware she was talking to five of the most famous people on the planet. She looked them up and down, clearly unimpressed by the corpse paint and dark clothing.

She glared fearlessly up at Nathan, "You need a haircut, boy."

He couldn't help but admire her abruptness. Intervening before a reply could be made or Swissgar decided to make a move, their manager quickly thanked her and navigated the labyrinth of rooms and wards to where Toki and Pickles were staying. The incident had almost caught him offguard, he'd decided to risk a local hospital rather than move the two very far. He had no intentions of the continuing the tour, but Mordhaus' own facilities were still somewhat lacking since the attack.

The band's insane luck had been the only thing between them and death tonight. He shuddered to think what could have happened if some sudden instinct hadn't told him to look up, if he hadn't noticed the odd angle of the scaffold, the rapidly fraying cable. There were a thousand infuriating little 'if's there, and he was in no particular hurry to lose any band members. He knew, as unlikely as it may seem to others, and despite his own best efforts, Dethklok had grown on him, they were like that. His shirt rubbed against the bruises, he was going to feel that tomorrow. Hell, he was feeling it now.

He suddenly became aware of Nathan's presence behind him, fluorescent lights casting a shadow that filled the narrow corridor. The large man was almost breathing down his neck and it was making Charles feel most ... uncomfortable. He chanced a backward glance.

"Urrrgh... why'd we have to come here?"

"I'm sure Pickles and Toki will appreciate it, Nathan."

This reply seemed to do nothing to satisfy him, and an intern doctor whimpered and dropped his armful of folders as the singer focused his glare on him. Swissgar too, seemed more irritable than usual, only half-heartedly debating with Murderface whether one could be cooked alive by x-rays.

"I hate hospitals."

"Me too."

It was out before he could stop himself. As a rule he never said anything personal to the band, that was just... Well, he was busy enough keeping them out of trouble already, and he liked that arrangement, it was simple. He should know by now it never paid to get emotionally involved with a project.

The Klokateers guarding the door straightened up as they caught sight of their Masters rounding the corner. Charles smiled to himself; the automatic rifles they cradled seemed redundant compared to the old battleaxe manning the front desk.

"Hey Pickle! We gots visigtors!"

Toki was at the foot of his bandmate's bed, practically jumping up and down with excitement, a lollipop sticking out of the corner of his sunny smile. His arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, but Ofdensen suspected this was more for the Norwegian's amusement than is health.

"Hey guys! They turnsed me into a mummyies, like on TVs!" he proudly announced, waving his arm around.

Murderface snorted. "Well, if you're anything like Schwischgar's you'll—"

Pickles mellow regard to the impromptu hospital brawl breaking out suggested he'd been dosed up pretty heavily. Charles ducked as a chair sailed by. Of all the band, the redhead appeared to have come off worst. From the reports he'd received, Pickles had only narrowly avoided being impaled by one of Facebone's horns, coming away with just a nasty cut on his back. The morphine seemed to be kicking in.

"Heeeeey Doooood!" Pickles laughed at no one in particular, "They reckon I wahs like five seconds from prahably beein' a sheeshkebahb! Feckin' luck of the Irish or somethin' ,eeeeeh?"

That was one was of putting it. Charles looked up from the doctor's charts which Toki had drawn all over, to see Nathan give the drummer a rare smile.

"Would 'a been a fucking brutal way to go though... Killed by our own, ah, skull.... thing."

Pickles laughed hysterically. "Hell yeah! And they have this nurse here, she's like Hiiiiitler or somethin', maaan! No joke, I saw her full-on belt this guy."

"Really?" Swissgar suddenly looked thoughtful,, "I likes dems with a bit ofs the fires..."

An envelope nestled under a half-eaten tray of food caught Charles's attention. Mail and extravagant gifts had already begun pouring in from the four corners of the globe, but that was to be expected. He'd left the guards strict instructions to allow nothing in or out of the private room without his direct authorisation. However, this plain little envelope had managed to defy him. He frowned; there was no name, no address, nothing.

"Toki, Pickles", he said slowly, making sure his message was getting across to two minds saturated with morphine and sugar, "Did either one of you seen who brought this in?"

Pickles appeared to be having a hard time understanding the question, "I Duuuunno... I mean, I seen a few people come an' go, but ah'm pretty sure that shit wahrn't real. Hey! I swear I saw Bowie, and he was doing this thing wereeee.."

The secret of exactly what David Bowie was doing in the ward was lost to the world as the drummer happily passed out.

Time to take the initiative. Slitting open the envelope, Charles was careful to control his expression. This could be a... difficult situation, no need to spook the boys. It might have just been an unpleasant, poorly-timed coincidence. He examined the single leaf of paper for any trace of its origin. Letters cut clumsily from a magazine tumbled over the page like a child's collage, forming a single sentence;

'pREpArE YouRSeLf FoR thE rEcKOniNG.'

Somewhere deep in his mind a tiny alarm flickered on for a second, leaving some vague, uneasy sense of familiarity or... He was so absorbed, he hadn't even noticed Nathan until he felt a low rumble almost in his ear, his glasses slipping down his nose as he jumped.

"What the fuck is going on?"

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**Endnote**: YOU RECIEVED FEEDBACK: 9000 EXP. LEVEL UP! Every review gives me glee and writing EXP.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Klokateer Number 782 shivered, trying to shake the dew from his steel-toed boots. The uniform might have been intimidating, but the sleeveless shirts did little to keep out the cold. His third week on the job and so far he'd been shot at, almost drowned and lost three teeth to a bizarre accident involving the band, a jet-ski and an electric lawnmower. By Gear standards, things were going well. Counting down the hours until dawn, he jumped at the sound of a woman's voice amongst the thicket of dead trees surrounding the perimeter.

"Soooo...You think it's workin'?"

"I dunno what to think, s'all up in the air," a distinctly male voice replied. "Will yer' stop jumpin' around like that? Yer makin' me uneasy here."

782 crouched behind a particularly charred and malnourished oak, careful to make no noise as he flicked the safety off his weapon. Shoot first, ask questions later. Hazarding a look at the soon-to-be ex-intruders, he was immediately struck by how _out of place_ they looked, like they'd gotten off at the wrong stop on the way to the 'Free Lovin' Music Festival or whatever crap he guessed those sorts listened to.

An overweight man leant against a tree trunk, tapping out a rhythm on the bark and looking bored. His female companion was perched in the fork of a tree, humming a strange little tune. It was difficult to tell where her long hair ended and her black dress began. Three weeks in Mordhaus had given him pretty thick skin, but 782 found something uniquely unnerving and sinister about the two. The klokateer took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart, probably just more suicidal fans. Shoot first, ask questions later.

The chubby man straightened up, tugging his patchwork cap in a business-like manner and giving the woman perched above him a patronising look.

"S'gonna take a little while longer, I reckon. Ya gotta be patient."

782 crept forward a little, getting a better look at the pair. They had to be in their late thirties at least, and neither seemed particularly phased by their location. The uneasiness he felt before doubled as the woman seemed to look straight at him, a shark-like smile twisting her features.

"I wanna be the one to send the gorilla straight to hell, 'kay , Jerry?" she called out into the darkness.

Spindly fingers dug into the Klokateer's shoulders and yanked him around. Training forgotten, he didn't even raise his own gun before he felt cold steel against his forehead. A long red and yellow scarf flapped about as his attacker leant down. He could see his own surprised eyes reflected in a pair of tinted shades. An unlit cigarette rolled across a pierced tongue. He was face-to-face with an executioner's grin. Their breath mingled for a second. The last thing Klokateer 782, reported missing, presumed dead, ever heard was a low, lazy drawl, not even directed at him.

"Shore thin' Izzy, 'Splosions's all yours."

The other two hardly blinked at the sharp crack of the gun. The third man nudged the body lazily with a boot, returning the handgun to his tattered waistcoat. All three looked up at the last light left on up in Mordhaus, shining out like a beacon. Their leader's smile seemed to widen, and he shifted the cigarette again, tasting the gunpowder in the night air.

"Hope you're ready to play, Charlie-Boy."

#

Charles F. Ofdensen woke with a sharp intake of breath, looking about the office wildly. Nothing. Relaxing the improvised fighting stance, he removed a fluorescent Post-It from his cheek. Since returning to Mordhaus his sleep had become constantly restless. Things he was able to ignore, or at least suppress, in his day-to-day life seemed to come alive with a vengeance at night. He often awoke in the darkness, drenched in sweat, almost tearing the sheets beneath his hands, feeling furious, terrified and pathetic. But this had been different. A vague sense of unease washed over him as he looked down at the letter flattened across the desk. He'd almost call it a premonition.

'_Prepare Yourself for the Reckoning...'_

He had the infuriating sense that he'd been close to indentifying what it was that personally bothered him about those exact words. He'd been at it for hours, examining the word choice, the position and colour of each letter, cross-referencing them with common sources. Nothing.

Charles felt the muscles in his back stiffen painfully as he moved to get out of the chair. It troubled him that the band had been directly involved this time, Dethklok did not cope well with these things, and when they did, it was each with their trademark vice. Except Nathan. Nathan, who, on the whole, seemed to react in a much more worrying way of late, lapsing into brooding silence. And that wasn't something Ofdensen could solve with strong coffee, rehab or paternity waivers.

Dethklok didn't suspect a thing, but he berated himself for not being more discreet. They received thousands of threats and hatemail every day, an insignificant amount compared to the gifts and fanmail, but certainly a large enough concern to have a full-time team of investigators and Klokateers rounding up suspects. Maybe this was nothing more than a bored, pathetic soul looking for attention. But those words...

Someone _had_ managed to partially dismantle part of the stage scaffolding. The reports only served to confirm his suspicions, and the implications were troubling. It wasn't even a particularly vital part; certainly they'd all almost died, but it seemed inefficient and messy. If he'd been the saboteur, he would have focused on the central structure, giving his enemies no time to react.

Someone was testing Dethklok's reactions. Testing his reactions.

They were capable of getting to the boys without being seen, and they wanted it known. It was a game. Well, he hadn't become one of the most powerful men in the world by playing by other people's rules. Dethklok's enemies had come and gone, perishing before the empire he had built. Nobody fucked with his bread and butter.

He started making a list of everyone Dethklok had managed to offend; beginning with large nations, as well as the more powerful religions and corporations. Pouring himself a drink, Charles sighed. He was going to need a lot more paper.

#

It had been a long time since Nathan Explosion had been up before midday. Not since he'd started sleeping right again. His mind flickered back to a hazy memory of a rooftop conversation he'd had with Pickles. Way back when they'd been in charge for those nine months of hell. Shit, they'd been off their faces, sleep deprived and crazy. He was pretty sure the constantly-stoned drummer didn't even remember what Nathan had told him that night. How he'd wished things had been different, just... stuff like that. He couldn't remember talking so much in years.

He had no idea what time it was, early morning probably. Sun wasn't up. Hadn't he just fallen asleep? Needed to distract himself. He did not want to deal with those very _unmetal_ thoughts. He tried the TV, but after the fifth infomercial in a row he gave up. Nathan couldn't stop thinking about it. Sure, he'd been dreaming about the usual weird, fucked up metal shit as usual, but there'd been something else on his mind. What the hell was Ofdensen's game? Did he get off on appearing in the nick of time to save the day? He'd done it again last night, saving his ass like some big damn hero. Just like before. He'd turn up and fix their fuckups so perfectly, like the robot never made a mistake in his life. Like they had no right to some answers.

Nathan had developed three ways of solving a problem; getting wasted, violent or loud. The first two didn't seem to bother the robot, so he was going to wake up his manager and yell some answers out of him. Simple. Problem solved.

The singer quickly realised he had no idea where the robot slept. He had to have private quarters or something. He usually just appeared out of nowhere to stop them setting stuff on fire, or he'd be in his office, doing something boring. He decided to check there, for lack of any better ideas. Stumbling up the stairs, he headed for the office with all the grace and purpose of a gigantic, slightly inebriated homing pigeon.

#

"Good morning, my Lord."

There was still a guard at the door, which was probably a good sign. He guessed robots never slept.

"Shall I te—"

"NO." Nathan pushed past, wanting the element of surprise, not wanting to give the man time to figure out something smart to say, to trick him out of answers.

He completely forgot all this as he stormed into the dimly lit office. Ofdensen was dead to the world, Nathan though he may _actually_ have been dead until he saw the papers ruffled by his breath. His manager was slumped over the desk, head resting on his arms, glasses lopsided, drooling slightly on his paperwork. Nathan asserted to himself that this was, in fact, a testimony to Dethklok's legendary badassery that they could exhaust their robot to such lengths, without even trying. But he couldn't help but grin as he noticed the open bottle of fancy grog on the table. This guy could not hold his drink. He thought back to that night they'd got him utterly wasted. He'd been very... friendly. Yeah, it was brutal, in no way was this showing an 'average guy' kinda side of a dude he was thinking about way too much. No, Nathan knew brutal. It wasn't Dethklok-level brutal, but whatever.

He decided he really should move the guy. Dethklok were experts in waking up in unusual places, and the hangover-cramps combo of a creative sleeping place was a bitch. There was no way Ofdensen was going wake up now. He was out like a fucking light. But just to be sure...

"HEY."

Nothing. Nathan paused. Switching to what passed for his inside voice, he decided to change tactics.

"HEY! The clown got back in and he's uh, stealin' all your good lamps... to sell for coke... to deal to,uh...orphans."

The sleeping man snuffled a little and smiled. He might as well have been yelling at a deaf guy. A totally brutal, not in any way kind of... Well, this could never be a good idea but...

"Charles." he growled.

He'd never met someone on first name terms with Ofdensen. He'd hadn't even really considered the possibility until he saw the people at the funeral, some that seemed vaguely familiar and others who were complete strangers. Nathan didn't really know what was supposed to happen at a funeral, but none of them seemed too cut up about it.

This was essentially him doing the band a favour, their manager might nag them less if he got a good night's sleep. Yeah. Carefully pulling him upright, he slipped an arm under his legs and the other between his shoulderblades. Ofdensen mumbled something as the larger man's hair fell across his face, before falling silent and pulling closer to Nathan's chest. The band really owed him one.

He was heavier than he looked, and the world's most brutal frontman had to readjust his arms a bit to stay upright. The guy was pretty lean, but if the muscle tone in his arms was anything to go by, he worked out a bit. Standing in the middle of the room, he realised this plan had not been well thought-out. He figured the Klokateers might try to do something if he walked out of the room carrying Dethklok's manager bridal style, demanding to know where his bedroom was. Yeah, that could look pretty bad.

The couch. He'd forgotten it was there. Usually, whatever they were here for was too important to bother with furniture. Or too boring. He quickly dumped him on the much-abused couch, watching as he curled up a bit, looking peaceful. He was smiling slightly for some weird reason. Probably dreaming about waivers or something. Whatever it was had got to be better than the messed up stuff keeping the singer awake.

He finally noticed the yellow piece of paper Charles held, scrunched up in his fist. Carefully tugging it free, he held it up to the light, recognising the manager's freakishly neat handwriting from countless cheques.

_Prepare yourself for the Reckoning__?_

_-literary allusion? - ref. Scripture, cult texts, lyrics, organisations etc._

_-Motto -organisation?_

_- Someone with stage access- affiliation with venue? Interview employees. _

_-__Double D-Klok guard__.__ Senior gears only._

It took him a moment to link the carefully written note with what he'd seen at the hospital. That weird note on Pickles' table was supposed to be no big deal; their manager had explained that people often sent these things as jokes. They'd all agreed it was sick, and gone back to hassling the hospital staff. If it was no big deal, why was he here, staying up to 4am writing... lists and shit? There was a whole list of names on the back, some of them he'd seen before. Someone was trying to fuck with them and, Nathan concluded in a rare moment of passable deduction, their manager was keeping them in the dark again. Fuck that, he thought they weren't capable of taking care of themselves? Screw Ofdensen. He pocketed the scrunched up paper and stormed out, bulldozing the sleepy guard at the door. Looking down at the dazed Klokateer, he gave his best death glare.

"You didn't see me here."

Picking himself up off the floor, the slightly unsteady and tubby Klokateer watched a huge shadow storm off into the darkness, trailing curses and threats. Waiting until Explosion disappeared out of sight, he threw a cocky salute and leant against the door.

"Shore thin', Boss-man, shore thin'."

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**Author's Notes**: Hey guys! I am so sorry it took me so long time update this, seriously. Things have been hectic and I've got to divide my time between coursework and writing my comic. I'm not one of those authors who holds out on chapters till they get reviews and such, I'm just godawful at time management. Hopefully my characterisations aren't too off, the pace is OK (The chapter's pretty slow, I know) and the mysterious trio in the grove are interesting without stealing the show from our antagonists. Thanks for the support and I'd really love to hear your thoughts and any constructive criticism you might have to help me improve my writing. And cheers for my awesome beta, Larien!


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